


The Adventure Of The Broken Batman (1888)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [97]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Army, Assassination, Corruption, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Gotham, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Organized Crime, Prophecy, References to Robin Hood, Secrets, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 12:59:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11013930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A curious little case, which was to have repercussions that I could not have imagined at the time. The British Army loses John Watson's respect, and Sherlock's advice is, once more, fatally ignored.





	The Adventure Of The Broken Batman (1888)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MelodyofWings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelodyofWings/gifts).



> Mentioned elsewhere as 'the Molesley mystery'. The position of batman, referenced in this story, has disappeared from the British Army in recent years. It was a junior officer who would act as servant to a senior one; some of my own generation still use it to refer to any junior officer.

My readers may be surprised, as they read this particular strange case, as to why it was not published at the time. I cannot fully satisfy their curiosity at this point in time, as my own concerns as to just what was 'off' about this case were themselves not fully addressed at the time, but safe to say that one of the characters in this case would be involved some three years later in the events which took Sherlock from me, and later still in our lives – and that I owe that 'gentleman' more than I can ever repay.

+~+~+

This was most evidently a dire emergency. The newly-promoted Inspector Henriksen had come round to Baker Street, and incredibly, it was _not_ one of Mrs. Harvelle's baking days. I told Sherlock that we should definitely prepare for nothing short of an apocalypse, earning myself a full eye-roll.

“Cynic!” he chided me, as we heard the Dutchman's definitive heavy step approaching the doorway. 

All right, I was cynical. But as it turned out, I was also correct, and our newly-promoted friend was about to send us into one of the strangest cases that we had ever been involved in, and also unusually, one with connections to a previous case where I had also senses that something was slightly 'off'. And finally, a case whose outcome both disgusted me more than I had thought possible with an institution that I had hitherto held in the highest esteem. The British Army.

+~+~+

“Do you remember that case with the Greek Interpreter, Mr. James Collins?” our friend began.

I nodded. A strange case of impersonation, where Mr. Jason Collins had tried to bring about an international incident by kidnapping and then standing in for his twin brother James, a famed translator, in talks between the ever-hostile Greeks and Ottomans. I had felt at the time that there was some other element to the case that I was not party to, but I respected my friend's right not to tell me everything, even if it had irked me just a little.

Sherlock looked pointedly at me. All right, it had irked me a lot. Like his freakish mind-reading abilities right now!

“Mr. James Collins' middle name is Edward”, the inspector said. “I mention that because his parents, presumably for want of imagination, named the third brother James as well. James Stephen, known to the family as Jimmy. He has disappeared.”

I know that some will say this is an observation from hindsight, but at that moment I definitely had a strange feeling that there was something slightly unusual about Sherlock's reaction to this case. I put it aside for consideration later, but in my notes I drew a small question-mark on the side of the page.

“And you wish for us to find him?” Sherlock asked.

The inspector scratched his bald head. I groaned inwardly; that surely meant that there was some horrible complication to matters.

“Jimmy Collins was in the army”, he said. “Much against his family's wishes, it might be said, but he was determined. Some time last month he deserted from his Nottinghamshire regiment, and he has somehow managed to vanish off the face of the earth!”

Sherlock looked at our friend curiously.

“Leaving aside the month's delay”, he said, “which, as I am sure you are aware, makes the case much more difficult, why you, Henriksen? You know as well as I do that the Army is almost as bad as the police service when it comes to keeping investigations 'in house', as they call it.”

“I just have a funny feeling about this”, our friend said. “I think that it is worth investigating.”

Sherlock just stared at him. I started counting. I did not get past ten.

“I hate it when you do that!” the policeman grumbled (and yes, I could empathize!). “All right. Fleming, the sergeant on the spot, was in training when I came to this country; I had to do a sort of transition course before I could join the Met. He is from the area where the boy vanished, and his force had the investigation – until someone took it out of their hands.”

I shuddered involuntarily. The last time something like that had happened, it had been the case that had brought us to Baker Street five years back. And had been followed by my losing Sherlock for the three years immediately after it. I suddenly felt very cold. 

Sherlock continued to stare at our visitor.

“We are going to have you down the station and do that to the criminals”, Henriksen grumbled. “Poor fellows will probably be confessing in seconds. Yes, there is something else. Fleming told me it in confidence.”

“Go on”, Sherlock said.

“His station is in a place called Cotgrave, covering the area south of the county town”, Henriksen said. “He has a sister not far from there; she lives in a small village called Langar. He went to see her just before the case was taken out of his hands, and he saw his chief-inspector drinking in the pub there.”

“Even chief-inspectors are allowed some vices, Henriksen”, Sherlock smiled. “Beer, cigars..... cake.”

The inspector blushed fiercely.

“Ahem!” he said loudly. “Thing was, the man wasn't alone. He was with a local criminal, a Mr. Jonathan Kerry.”

“How do you know that the man is a criminal?” I asked.

“He works out of Nottingham”, Henriksen said, “so he was known to Fleming. Three things I would like to know. What was the crim doing out in the middle of nowhere, why was he talking with a copper from his home patch some ten miles away, and why did the case get removed from that copper's force just days later?”

“How bad is this man?” I asked, worriedly.

“Very bad, so Fleming says”, Henriksen sighed. “They call him King John, because it is hard by old Sherwood Forest.”

“Gotham”, I said sagely.

“How did you know?” Henriksen demanded. I looked at him in confusion.

“Know what?” I asked. 

“That is close by where the man disappeared”, the inspector said. “The regiment was camped between there and Ratcliffe, a couple of miles away.

“I just remembered it from history”, I said defensively. “Legend says that old King John was going to pass through the village, but the villagers knew that if he did, their road would become 'The King's Highway', and they would then have to pay to maintain it. So they pretended that they were suffering from madness, which at the time was thought to be infectious.”

“Did it work?” Sherlock asked, evidently amused by him encyclopædic knowledge. 

“Sort of”, I said. “It deterred the king all right, but then the other villages nearby refused to trade with them until the 'outbreak' was safely over.”

“It looks like we are in for a trip to Robin Hood's county, then”, Sherlock smiled. “If, of course, the surgery can spare you, doctor?”

Fortunately, the owners of the surgery were more than pleased with me just then. Brett & Burke, my publishers, had wanted to produce a small set of high-quality limited edition collected works of my sixteen stories so far published. There were to be a hundred books and no more, so I had agreed to sign all of them (my poor wrist!) on condition that half the profits went to the surgery who made my sometimes wayward existence possible. 

“I am sure that they will be more than obliging”, I smiled.

+~+~+

Henriksen arranged for Sergeant Fleming to meet us off the train at Kegworth, so the following morning we duly decamped to the Midland Railway Company's St. Pancras Station for a train to Nottinghamshire. I noticed immediately that Sherlock seemed strangely thoughtful, and asked him why.

“This case worries me”, he said. “I have been monitoring for some time a new and very dangerous type of criminal behaviour. One which is not criminal.”

“Pardon?” I was confused.

“Having a police service is all very well”, Sherlock said, “but what happens when the service itself chooses to follow a dark path, like what happened in the Spencer John case? ' _Quis custodiet ipses custodes_ ', as the saying goes.”

“Who guards the guards”, I translated, thinking again of the way in which poor William Harvelle had been effectively done to death by the British government. And, of course, the consequences that had flowed from that for me personally, losing Sherlock as I had.

We were unusually silent as our train steamed through the dingy northern suburbs of the Great Wen and made its way through the Home Counties. MY bad feeling about this case had not gone away at all.

+~+~+

We duly met Sergeant Fleming off the train at Kegworth. He was a tall, solidly-built young fellow in his mid-thirties, with what seemed like a permanently worried expression on his face.

“I've arranged to put you gentlemen up in the village”, he said as our cab trundled across a bridge towards what was presumably Kegworth. “We've just crossed into Leicestershire, you see, and I'm hoping that that'll mean the people involved in this mess are less likely to learn of your being involved any time soon.”

I wondered at his tone, which seemed to imply that he was actually afraid of these 'people'. Some of whom might be his close superiors.

“There does seem very little to go on”, Sherlock observed. “I am to assume that there have been no further developments in the case?”

“Not as such, sirs”, the sergeant said. “Once you're settled in, I've set up a meeting with Private Balliston. He's quit the army since all this went down, and is living in Shepshed, a few miles south of here. He is meeting us at Whatton, just south of here. It is nearer.”

Sherlock tilted his head to one side and looked inquiringly at the policeman.

“It is _that_ bad?” he asked softly.

“Yes!” the man said fervently.

+~+~+

“What did you mean by that?” I asked, as we paused briefly to leave our bags in the room of the inn where we were staying. It was comfortable enough, but I was growing increasingly concerned as to the direction in which this case was heading. Sherlock looked pointedly at me.

“Shepshed is a small town, a few miles south of here”, he said, “yet rather than us go to him or his come to us, this man wishes to meet us in some small village where, he presumably hopes, there is less chance of our encounter reaching the ears of certain important and powerful people. This man is afraid, Watson - and, I fear, he is right to be afraid!”

+~+~+

He was, as ever, right. Former private Niall Balliston was a solidly built fellow in his late twenties, and was clearly a loss to His Majesty's armed forces. Yet from the start he looked visibly nervous, even though Sergeant Fleming had dropped us at a small cottage outside the village, and said that he would be back in an hour to pick us up.

“Why did you leave the army?” Sherlock asked bluntly.

“'Cause I didn't want them to end me the same way they ended poor Jimmy!” the former soldier said, wide-eyed. “He's a goner, I'm sure.”

The man had a clear Irish accent, I noted. Sherlock looked at him thoughtfully.

“You have some item pertinent to the case?” he asked. The ex-soldier somehow contrived to look even more terrified.

“How on.... how did you know that?” he demanded. “There's no way you could....

“Because if it was just your word against those of a number of superior officers”, Sherlock interrupted, “you would not be so alarmed. I believe that the missing Mr. Collins found something that may or may not have confirmed the guilt of one of those officers, and that they realized that fact. They decided to eliminate that danger. That was why he disappeared – or, as they rather ungrammatically say these days, 'he was disappeared'.”

The man shuddered, but rose and went across to a writing-desk, which he unlocked. Inside was a silver hip-flask, clearly of the highest quality. He handed it to Sherlock, who looked hard at it.

“Birmingham hallmark”, he said. “Some of that city's best work, and I would say that the crest on it is a family one, as it is not military. The owner is – or was – an elderly gentleman, most probably a soldier who served overseas at one time. He were careful of his possessions, and was very proud of his local heritage.”

“That was Major Molesley, sir”, the man said, clearly astonished. “You knew of him?”

“I did not know of his existence until you showed me that flask”, Sherlock said.

The man stared at him in confusion.

“There is a heraldic tendency”, Sherlock said, “to which our esteemed private railway companies seem particularly prone, that one is only deemed to have 'made it' when one has a personal coat of arms, even if it has not been officially approved by the Garter King in London. The bear and ragged staff in the top left represents the county of Warwickshire, which is not that far from here, and the flag above is a saltire. That would usually suggest Scots ancestry, but the darker markings of the cross suggest that it is the old flag of the ancient Mercian kingdom, which covered this area in the Dark Ages.”

“But how do you know that he served overseas?” I asked. Sherlock carefully opened the flask and held it under my nose. I winced.

“Any concoction strong enough to leave an odour like that must have been regularly imbibed”, my friend said. “I can detect at least three spices which, I know, originate in India, which suggests that he became enamoured of this concoction and most probably served out there. It is fashionable for such men, upon returning home, to have such drinks made up in England, presumably to remind them of their time abroad. Furthermore, people tend as a rule to keep all large objects in the coat pocket that corresponds with their principal hand. From the faint marks that are present on this flask, I would say that the owner most probably had a leather pouch made to fit around it, and thus protect it from rubbing against his keys. He cared for this item.”

“I am impressed, sir”, our host said, “that you know all that just from looking at it.”

Sherlock gave him a level look.

“I rather fear that I know something more”, he said quietly. “This object was instrumental in its owner's death, and most likely in the subsequent disappearance of your fellow soldier.”

+~+~+

The silence in the room was palpable. Then our host sighed.

“I owe it to Jimmy to tell the truth”, he said heavily, “even if they do come after me. This is how it happened, sirs.”

“The flask was owned by Major Walter Molesley”, the man said. "Very old-school fellow, but sound as a bell when it came to fighting. I doubt we would have ended up in this whole mess were it not for his sister moving to the area, and her son George joining our regiment as a lance-corporal. You see, sirs, our own Lance-Corporal, Mr. Kerry, was expecting to be promoted soon, and before the major's nephew arrived, well, with the major due to retire in four months, his promotion had looked cut and dried. But then the major said he'd been asked to stay on for a year. 'Course we all knew that he hadn't; he was doing it so his nephew could get the required time under his belt, so that he could be the one to replace him.”

Our host took a stiff drink – I winced as I noticed the nearly empty decanter on the sideboard - and paused before continuing.

The regimental doctor, Ned Pickford, had to have been in on it as well”, he said. “The major was taken ill after dinner one evening, his stomach pains got steadily worse, and he died before midnight. The doctor said that it had been food poisoning and he'd just been unlucky, but of course we all suspected something had been done to bump him off. It was the talk of the barracks, as I'm sure you can guess. Except for Jimmy, who was Captain Kerry's batman. He said nothing about the whole incident, and although he was generally a quiet fellow, that seemed odd.”

“I remember the morning after, I went for a wash and came back to find Jimmy feeling about under my bed. He stood up and said that he'd dropped a pencil – he had one in his hand all right – and it had rolled under there. I thought nothing of it at the time, but that was where I found the flask later. Jimmy had been on duty the night the major died, and I think he saw or heard something. He must've put the flask under my bed, though Lord alone knows why.”

“Have you any idea where he may have gone?” Sherlock asked. 

The man shook his head.

“But if you're staying up in Kegworth, you may want to go and speak with young Miss Allen”, he said. “She lives just outside Gotham, almost within sight of where the men had been camped at the time Jimmy vanished.”

“What is her involvement in the matter?” I asked.

“Probably none”, he said. “But if Jimmy left camp and headed down the Trent, Gotham is the first place he'd have come to. There's a small wood there, and her cottage is right on the edge of it. She's a seer, and her place.... well, it's sort of safe.”

We stared at him in confusion.

+~+~+

Back in Kegworth, Sergeant Fleming was able to expand on the former private's words.

“The road through Gotham was an ancient Roman one”, he said, “and in the wood they built a small temple to the god Apollo, god of prophecy. Nothing there now of course, except a few foundations. But the place acquired a reputation that those who went there might, if the god favoured them, acquire the Sight.”

More preternatural hogwash, I thought uncharitably. He noted my skepticism and smiled.

“A woman called Mrs. Allen came to live there with her daughter about three decades back”, he said, “and they both had it. She died, but the daughter still lives there. Daphne, I think her name is.”

“Appropriate”, Sherlock smiled, “considering that Apollo pursued the nymph Daphne only for her to become a tree.”

The sergeant stared at him, nonplussed. Clearly Greek myths were not his strong point.

“Well, that's as may be”, he said. “But I do know one thing. They call the wood Reynard's Bolt, because if a fox flees in there, then the hounds won't follow him, no matter what. I've seen that myself; we tracked a chap in the village one time, and the dog nearly threw a fit when we tried to lead it down towards the wood. They do say that animals can sense things humans cannot.”

“Curious”, Sherlock said. “And possibly an excellent place to hide out. We must go there tomorrow.”

+~+~+

“How was the major poisoned?” I asked Sherlock later.

“I suspect some form of alkali poisoning”, he said. “The taste of some poisons in that category is not unlike the bitter flavour of the late major's eastern concoction, which would mean a few precious seconds before he would have realized the danger. Which means....”

He stopped. I knew what it meant. We were now investigating at least one murder. Quite possibly two. And some of those responsible worked with guns for a living.

+~+~+

People tend to assume that all writers are highly imaginative, and that the smallest thing can set us off fantasizing about strange new worlds, with new lives and new civilizations, where the hero boldly goes where no man has gone before (and someone can stop rolling their eyes at me; split infinitives _are_ acceptable for dramatic purposes!). My readers sometimes forget that my own writings were mostly fact, straying into half-truths only to protect the identities of those who deserved it. I actually consider myself very unimaginative – but I will admit that there was something about that small wood just outside a Nottinghamshire village that fairly terrified me! Sherlock looked at me with some concern as we approached the little cottage, but fortunately his attention was diverted when the door opened a fraction of a second before he could knock. A red-haired young lady stood there in what were very obviously homespun clothes, eyeing us impatiently.

“ _You_ are late”, she said, sounding as if that was our fault, somehow. “Well, come you in. I have coffee.”

Out here, I wondered? Although I smiled inwardly when I noted Sherlock's eyes light up.

“Of course I knew you were coming!” she said. “I have read of your detective adventures, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, so I was delighted that you took this case. And relieved, all things considered. Although the great detective will need to use all his powers to solve this one. He should definitely be using the services of his demonic sibling to sort this mess out, rather than that useless lounge-lizard of a brother that neither of you can stand.”

At least my fears had partly given way to wondering, how did she know all this?

Inside the cottage it was predictably dark, only one small window giving any light. A man was sat by the fire, heavily wrapped up in at least three blankets, and did not seemingly react until the lady spoke.

“Jimmy?”

The man slowly stood up, and I gasped. Far more than either of his translator brothers, this was the living image of the man stood next to me – except this was Sherlock as I hoped never, ever to see him. A broken man.

+~+~+

It was strangely unsettling, seeing Sherlock sat beside the man who might as well have been his twin brother. Jimmy Collins had a heavily stubbled face and, much worse, a haunted look in his eyes. He was clearly someone who had been to Hell and back. Miss Allen wrapped his blankets more firmly around him, and he smiled what was definitely a Sherlock smile at her in gratitude. I shuddered.

“It is not a pretty story”, Miss Allen said, “but you will need the whole tale if you are to bring justice down on the men who.... broke Jimmy.”

She had been about to say something else there, I thought. But what?

“As you know, gentlemen”, she said, “Jimmy was batman to that vile piece of human excrement called Lance-Corporal Robert Kerry. How such a piece of filth could rise even that far in the British Army is a sad indictment of our armed forces today. You will have to use all your powers to bring him and his equally toxic father to justice, let alone the rest of the King's Men.”

“Am I to assume that you have a suggestion as to how I do that?” Sherlock asked mildly. She smiled.

“I thought..... Mr. Bow?”

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. He was rarely surprised, so this had to be serious.

“Who is Mr. Bow?” I asked plaintively. She glanced at my friend, and he nodded.

“One of the top assassins in London Town”, she said lightly. “Most definitely a master of his trade. If he decides that you are better off dead, then you had best arrange your funeral and write a will. And write quickly.”

“And buy life insurance”, Sherlock agreed. He looked again at the shivering man next to him, and gently wrapped his arm around him. Jimmy Collins shuddered, but leant into the embrace. I felt a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach, and Miss Allen looked at me far too knowingly.

“When that soldier and his cronies poisoned poor Major Molesley”, she said, “they were careless. After all, the camp doctor was in on it, so it seemed that there was no danger. However, when he was dying, the major knew what had been done to him. He was in no fit state to leave a message, and even if he had, they might have found it and destroyed it, but he knew that Jimmy on duty could be trusted, so he threw his flask out of the window when he was passing. Once he heard about the death, Jimmy guessed what had really happened.”

“Unfortunately, that rat Kerry must have suspected. He and some of his cronies cornered Jimmy, and tried to beat what he knew out of him. He managed to get away and, knowing the legend of the wood, made for here. They used dogs to track him, but of course no animal comes into my wood.”

“They came here?” I asked. She nodded.

“I took Jimmy's uniform and laid a false trail to the other side of the village, then left it in the middle of a field”, she smiled. “Doubtless they were wondering how he apparently grew wings and flew from their clutches.”

“When is the next meeting of the King's Men?” Sherlock asked.

“The day after tomorrow, at Mr. Kerry's house just outside Nottingham”, she said. “You are going.”

He turned to me, and I knew what he was going to say before he said it.

“No!” I said firmly. “I am coming with you.”

“Actually I was going to suggest that we talk to Mr. Kerry before the meeting”, he said disarmingly. “Better that he knows what lies in wait, so he can communicate it to his fellow criminals.”

“Including the chief-inspector”, Miss Allen put in.

Perhaps there was something to her abilities after all. I wondered if she had any advice on horse-racing....

She shook her head at me. Damnation, now I had two of them at it!

+~+~+

Miss Allen told us that Mr. Jonathan Kerry would be taking a walk around his home village of Ratcliffe after breakfast the following morning, which meant that we had an early start (and yes, Sherlock had nearly all of my bacon!) so that we could set off and intercept him. There was no missing him from the seer's description; a tall grey-haired patrician of a man who clearly knew his place in society – above almost everyone else. He looked up curiously as he saw us blocking his path.

“Who might you be, sirs?” he snapped, and I noticed his hand moving to his coat pocket. I was secretly glad that I had brought my revolver, and that I had it cocked and ready.

“My name is Mr. Sherlock Holmes”, Sherlock said, “and this is Doctor John Watson. I am pleased to inform you, Mr, Kerry, that the game is up.”

“What do you mean?” the man demanded. Sherlock smiled unpleasantly.

“A certain chain of events is about to be set in motion”, he said. “Either automatically, some seven days from noon today, or sooner should you be foolish enough to try to pre-empt it with a move against either myself or any of my acquaintances. You see, Mr. Kerry, I know all about your son's murder of Major Molesley, and your friendship with the local chief-inspector of police.”

“There's no proof about that old fool's death!” the man snorted. “And since when is it wrong to have coppers as friends?”

Sherlock shook his head at him.

“That will not do, sir”, he said. “Besides, you are confusing justice and the law. I represent justice, for both Major Molesley and Private Collins, brutally beaten by your son and his friends. I do not care for the law as such, useful though it is at times.”

“Sir...”

“You and the rest of the King's Men have one week, from noon today, to leave the United Kingdom”, Sherlock said. “That is more than generous on my part, given your foul dealings.”

“And if we do not?” the man sneered. Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

“I have my own 'useful contacts'”, he said. “Someone who owes me a favour for a rather large helping hand that I gave him at a difficult time in his own life. He prefers London, but knows that I am quite prepared to pay for his expenses to travel – first-class - to the country in order to practice his trade. That trade is assassination. His success rate, by the way, is currently one hundred per cent.”

The man had gone pale, his bluster gone.

“Should any of you be in the country after noon a week today”, Sherlock said coldly, “or should you return for any reason, then my man will kill you. He will dispatch one of you on the stroke of noon, and then the next seven days later, the next six days after that, then five days.... I am sure that you can see the arithmetical series on which he works. If I were you, sir, I would start packing.”

He led me away, but I kept an eye on the man behind us before he seemed to snap out of whatever trance he was in and hurry off.

+~+~+

I had hoped that we would be quickly departing the area, just in case Mr. Kerry did try something, but Sherlock wanted to make sure that Jimmy Collins was in good enough health before we left. I had wondered if there was anything between the poor soldier and Miss Allen, but apparently not, for he expressed a wish to quit England and go to the United States. Sherlock, showing great generosity even for him, left him enough money for some good clothes, the whole trip and Lucius Holmes' card to help him set himself up in a new life across the wide blue seas.

+~+~+

About a week later I noticed a small article on the inside pages of the times. I read it with no little amount of satisfaction, and allowed myself a smile, even if it did involve a man's death. Someone had apparently shot and killed a Lance-Corporal Robert Kerry, on his way to be fitted out for a new suit to mark his forthcoming promotion. And his father had, as a result, claimed to have had enough of England, saying that it was too dangerous and that he and some friends were quitting for the Continent. Immediately.

In unrelated news, the chief-inspector in the same county, Nottinghamshire, had come into an inheritance in the East Indies that required his immediate departure from these shores.

+~+~+

In our next case, in what would only later be understood as Dame Fate being crueller than usual, a face from the past shocks one of us – and there is worse to come.


End file.
